Hooked
by Glue Gun
Summary: Tonight you expect to end up in the bed of someone that’s twice your age and all too willing to pay for your ‘services’-- not in the bed of your most childlike classmate. Kenny/Butters


**Pairings**: Kenny/Butters. Side pairings will probably include some girl/girl. Can anyone say Bebe/Wendy?

**Disclaimer**: Don't own it.

**Warnings**: Expect anything and everything except for this to be good.

**A note on the POV**: ...I'm sorry. Feel free to leave a review telling me how much you hate it. Believe me, I'll understand.

* * *

**Hooked  
**_Chapter 1: Milk  
_

It's difficult to remember why exactly you like cold nights when you're standing on some street corner you've already forgotten the name of, barely clad in anything. You've even abandoned your trademark orange parka back home on your bed in exchange for a sort of makeshift anonymity. After all, no one but your closer friends and family would recognize you without it, and surely none of the aforementioned people would be wandering around what could vaguely be considered the 'sleazy' part of their quiet little hick town in the middle of the night.

Lighting up another cancer stick in attempt to maintain the illusion of warmth, you shift your lazy yet provocative stance against the brick wall of the unnamed business you're leaning on. The lovely climate of Hell would be more favorable than this weather, you think, though you doubt smoking in _that place_ would bring any sort of relief to your body other than the sensation of your lungs actually bursting into flames. After all, hell is supposed to be a kingdom of divine punishment, not pleasure. You wonder then, if the simple puff of a cigarette would feel even more satisfying in heaven than it does in the mortal realm or if smoking would be banned in God's kingdom as it is in various eating establishments and places of business here, the good lord himself finding smoking to be a vile and disgusting habit. Regardless of what the big man's opinion on smoking is, you're certain that it would be _fucking sweet_ if halos could act as the most convenient—and arguably the most holy—cigarette lighters in history.

You make a mental note to always keep at least one fresh cigarette on you from now on, so least the next time you die some knowledge will be gained from the experience.

The sound of footsteps stopping in front of you and the faint, yet undeniably alluring heat of a body close to yours alerts you of the man's presence. Upon opening your eyes and drinking in the sight of him, you almost cringe at how familiar the man's neat brown hair and slightly ruffled dress shirt and tie is. You know him from somewhere—of course you would, this is a small town after all. It's to be expected that the person who finally approached you for a 'good time' would be someone you'd inevitably see around town again sometime in the near to distant future—hence the lack of parka. Still, your brain is screaming at you to remember who exactly this is, because _you'll fucking regret it if you don't_.

But when the man slips a one hundred-dollar bill into the pocket of your small tight-fitting jean shorts, pulling you forward by the belt loops and promising more if you follow him home, you decide that your brain is _far_ too frozen for any of your recollection skills to remain intact.

You flick your cigarette into the dirty slushy snow that has accumulated next the curb, while the man slides a hand down your side, his other hand busy sliding another large bill into your pocket. Now that your lungs are no longer filled to capacity with smoke, the stink of alcohol fills them instead. It's now beyond obvious that this guy is heavily intoxicated. Chances are he won't even remember what happened tonight by the time morning decides to smile down upon him, hell, you doubt he even knows what he's doing now. Another bill-- this time deposited in your back pocket and accompanied with a grope-- is all the persuasion you need to follow him all the way to his home like a needy, wanton puppy.

One of your fondest memories is of a Christmas just long enough ago to be considered nostalgia material, during which you received a nice, crisp, fifty dollar bill—a rare occurrence in a household where the parents only scarcely scraped enough money together every year to buy their children a few cheap toys and if they're lucky, stockings (actual socks, rather) stuffed with a single PEZ dispenser. Oh yes, the money was definitely a nice surprise. Not that you particularly mind your family's state of wealth, it's simply just how things are and you've grown accustomed to it long ago.

Still, if Cartman's mom can support her family (read: her son's gluttonous wants, both figuratively and literally) by earning money solely by the means of being a, well, _crack whore,_ then why shouldn't you give this lucrative occupation a spin? It couldn't hurt; after all, you can't die anyway, not really, because what is death if not eternal? Every time you journey to the great beyond and back, it must be something _else, _because whatever you do sure as hell isn't permanent.

Though, if you're going to change your title to 'crack whore', you might as well drop the 'crack' since you don't touch that shit, or any drugs for that matter (no offense to those who do, of course. Hell, you'll even sit in the same room or smoke filled car while other people do it, you've just burnt yourself out on it years ago and seen enough drug use in your short lifetime to no longer be interested in doing it yourself). And 'Whore' really is too strong of a word, you've seen whores, you've flirted with whores, you've masturbated to whores—if anyone knows anything about whores, it's you, and you know that you are definitely _not_ one. You're still a virgin, for Christ sakes, though many wouldn't believe it if you told them. Since when did a love for talking, joking, drawing, looking and thinking about things of the sexual nature mean you also had a love for fucking everything that moved? Sometimes you just don't get why everyone is so bound by such a closed minded sense of logic—or perhaps you just don't understand logic at all yourself.

You suppose it doesn't matter much now though, because hopefully before dawn breaks you _won't_ have your virginity and you _will_ be a few hundred dollars richer.

It's not until you reach the doorstep of your very first trick's home that your body starts to betray you by winding your insides up into a thick greasy bundle of sickness and nerves. The man's saying something as he unlocks the front door, the jingle of his keys sounding abnormally sharp and loud to your ears as the snow drifts silently down to blanket the pleasantly deserted street. The whole way to the house you had responded appropriately to his banter, his advances, and the palms of his large old-enough-to-be-your-father's hands sliding subtly over your exposed flesh. But now, no, you didn't even bother putting on a flirtatious show of interest for him, though he didn't seem to notice or care if you were interested or not at this point. You _couldn't_ bring yourself to do much of anything besides hesitate quietly on the doorstep before walking numbly inside, all the time heavily considering running as far away from there as possible but feeling too trapped and in over your head to do anything but proceed as planned.

This was no big deal, you've barely even needed to assure yourself of this fact because you honestly believed it not to be anything worth bating an eyelash over. But your body is betraying your mind now, your mind is even betraying you by suddenly switching its opinion of this idea to 'horribly bad'. You're nervous, extremely so, even though you shouldn't be. But you are.

Because you know whose house this is. You know whose _father_ this is. And as the door is closed quietly behind you, you _definitely_ know whose picture is hanging on the wall.

The room is dark—as it should be in the middle of the night—so you don't blame your suitor for carelessly ignoring the look of horror on your face as he pulls you close to him, his mouth paying far too much attention to your neck. Your worry over the now unwanted attention doesn't last long however, as a sudden, loud, wet _thunk_ coming from the doorless entryway straight ahead of you causes your head snap up only to meet the eyes of someone whose mask of horror mirrors your own. The kid's dad is so drunk that he doesn't so much as flinch at the previous sound, instead focusing his efforts on the hand that is currently sneaking its way down the back of your pants.

You wish that your vision hadn't already adjusted to the dark so you wouldn't have been able to see your classmate's face quite so clearly, even though the faintly glowing light from the left-open refrigerator caused the kitchen the boy was standing in to appear slightly more visible. He just stands there in all of his naive and oh-so honestly confused glory, as if he had merely been startled that someone was downstairs, perhaps initially afraid that he'd be grounded for being awake at this hour.

He broke the eye contact first, his wide blue eyes snapping fearfully towards the man still clinging to you, _his father,_ you remind yourself.

The long sleeves of his PJs cutely cover his hands almost completely as he presses them close to his chest and rubs his knuckles together habitually, the gears in his head now turning as he curiously drinks in the scandalous sight. His innocent expression is too-soon transforming into one of realization and you're now aware of how hard your heart is pounding, forcing the blood to course hotly through your veins. _God damn it_, why couldn't he just be oblivious like he was when he was nine?

He opens his slightly quivering lips, about to speak before deciding in a moment of hesitation that he isn't quite ready for that just yet, gasping in a small breath of air instead. Everything about the boy standing in the doorway tugs at your heartstrings and the overwhelming amount of shame you feel is making you want to scream at the boy, tell him that yes, you were going to fuck his dad for money, that no, you didn't realize it was his dad at first but that doesn't mean you're insensitive or don't care about him at all, because he really is a nice kid, and finally, _yes_ you feel _so fucking bad_ about everything right now.

You _want_ to yell, apologize, run from that god damned house as fast as humanly possible, but you don't. All you can manage to do is stare coldly at the awestruck boy while greedy hands that you barely register are there roughly grope and prod you.

He opens and closes his mouth a few more times in several failed attempts at speaking before he finally shuffles forward slightly and mutters what should have been a barely audible, "D…Dad?" But apparently the small blonde boy is incapable of speaking quietly because his voice sounds more like a whispered shout than anything else.

At the sound of his son's voice, the man is off of you and clear across the room in record time… Had he not almost tripped over thin air in the process, resulting in him having to stumble towards his son and clutch the doorframe to regain his balance.

"Butters," his voice is parental and cutting despite the slight slur. "What in God's name are you doing _out of bed at this hour?_" He questions harshly, as if that's really the most important thing right now.

"W-well, I got a little hungry, that's all!" Butters replies with such a trained quickness that you feel a pang of pity for him. Even in a situation such as this, instead of demanding answers he's cowering before authority. "S-so I thought I'd…" His brows furrow as his voice trails off, and you wonder if maybe it's because he just realized that he shouldn't be the one under scrutiny for his actions right now. Okay, maybe _that's_ a long-shot.

"Well you can just march yourself back up to bed right now mister," Mr. Stotch orders, still not-quite grasping the severity of his son walking in on him sticking his hands down the pants of an underage boy. Drunken hazes do horrible things to a person, but perhaps in this case it's a godsend.

A small hesitation from the younger Stotch and then, "…No." Honestly, his voice sounded just as unsure as it did firm.

"_What_ did you just say to me?"

"I said, NO. I… I'm not goin' anywhere," Butters says, mustering a brave glare at the same time as he eyes Mr. Stotch's raised hand wearily. If his father wasn't so drunk Butters would be sporting a nice red mark on his cheek. Upon dodging his father's swinging hand, his glare only intensifies. "Now, look here, I'm pretty sick, no, I'm _really_ _sick_ of you going and do… doin' whatever you wanna do every time mom goes outta town. You've _never_ let me do any ol' thing I want, EVER, a-and I think you're a.. you're one heckova hypocrite!" Butters nearly hisses the last words, shocking both his father and admittedly yourself. You never knew Butters had it in him to stand up to his dad, of all people. "Not to mention," he adds, his eyes drifting over to meet mine "He's… well, he's sorta…"

During the course of Butters' rant a smile tugs at your lips, you feel bad for doubting him and proud that he's standing up for himself all at the same time. Though the smile is short-lived, and you are forced to school your expression into one of indifference as you stare back at Butters. You're extremely grateful that he didn't finish his last thought by outing you as a fellow classmate and-slash-or lifetime off-and-on childhood playmate, because on the off chance that Mr. Stotch remembers any of this in the morning, you would rather not deal with _knowing_ that he _knows_ who you are.

After he recovers from the shock of having finally been talked back to after so many years, Mr. Stotch attempts to counter the rant with disgruntled frustration. "Son, I... You have no right to…!" Needless to say, it is hardly a very good tactic.

Butters still isn't looking at his dad and appears extremely uncomfortable due to the combined efforts of his fathers tone of voice and your gaze.

In a fit of gracious mercy you finally cease staring at him, instead studying the half-gallon jug of milk lying by his feet (which you now know is what had been dropped to create the noise that had initially alerted you of his presence), a large puddle of milk pooling all around him, illuminated by the refrigerator light. The milk is soaking into his socks, though he doesn't seem to notice. Your attention is then brought to said socks, and you laugh despite the seriousness of the situation. The bottoms of his pajama pants are tucked into his socks for some unknown reason, _what the fuck, _and against your better judgment you find that hilarious.

Your laugh causes both father and son to stare at you.

Mr. Stotch saunters over to stand beside you, drapes one arm good-naturedly around your shoulders and says, "You're completely right. We're all handling this situation _much_ too seriously. If Butters here," he slips the arm around your shoulders down to encircle your waist, pulling you with him towards Butters. "Is _that_ jealous, then he can just _have_ you."

Both your and Butters' simultaneous "…_What?_" is dripping with scandalized confusion.

"No buts! That's an _order_, young man. You just said yourself that you never get to do what you want, so now I'm giving you something that you'll never have otherwise because you're such a god darn pussy."

You're shocked at the ridiculously flawed logic and Butters is gaping back and forth between you and his dad as if there's some sort of terrible display of twisted car wreckage spread out in front of him. The next thing you know you're being dragged firmly towards the stairs, Butters being pulled along as well on the other side of Mr. Stotch.

"Besides, you _clearly_ need to resolve some of that tension and negativity you have bottled up inside, young man. Maybe then you can quit lashing out like a disobedient brat," Mr. Stotch says this with a note of finality as he releases you both when greeted with the bottom of the staircase. When neither you nor Butters move he gives you a quick slap on the ass and tells you that you better 'make his son into a man'.

Apparently that's the last straw, Butters has had it with his dad's behavior at last.

A sweat dampened hand is gripping yours tightly, tugging and urging you to follow its owner up the stairs, and you do, cautiously at first and then with more haste. Your feet pound on the stairs alongside his clumsy ones, seemingly not able to reach the top fast enough. When there are no more stairs to climb and you're met with an unfamiliar hall you only have seconds to register that you and Butters have been moving so fast you both slide across the wooden floor and crash unceremoniously against the wall. This is only a minor delay, as you soon find yourself tugged urgently down the hall and into what is undoubtedly Butters' bedroom. You don't even hear the sound of the door being shut as you cross the room to sink to the floor next to the bed.

The room is dark, Butters doesn't bother flipping the light switch on. The only reason you're able to see at all is courtesy of the moon invading the small room with its feather light caress of ethereal luminosity, though that too is soon cut short when Butters pulls the curtains tightly closed as if mere polka-dotted fabric could prevent the unwelcome from crashing into their newfound safe haven. The darkness doesn't last for very long however, as Butters switches on a small cat shaped nightlight that's plugged into the outlet nearest to his bed.

You feel mentally and physically drained as you watch Butters dart around the room, busy stacking, throwing and hauling every movable object in his room against the door. It's almost amusing but eventually you grow bored and ask, "What—" but that's a stupid question. You know _what_ he's doing. He's creating an improvised lock since his door doesn't seem to come equipped with one. "No, _why_ are you doing that?" This question has a fairly obvious answer as well but you want to hear the reasoning from the blonde boy himself.

Your voice disrupting the silence does not hinder his actions and he doesn't even so much as glance at you as he replies, "I'm barricadin' us in, a'course. I'm not lettin' nothin' bad happen to you if I can help it...!"

To that, you have no reply. Butters has successfully migrated his dresser, nightstand, lamp, and about ten other random smaller objects against his door. The entire process is no longer amusing and you're of the opinion that it's an unnecessary and a rather childish thing to be doing; but this _is_ Butters you're talking about, he's the king of all things unnecessary and childish. Still, as you watch him flitter back and forth across the room as if both your lives depended on the quickness of his task, you can't help but feel an odd sense of security—as if a small safe little world is being woven around you. It's something you've rarely ever felt. Safe… Someone going out of their way to make damn sure you're safe. It's strange, foreign, and you'd be damned if you weren't fucking _basking_ in that feeling right now.

You're in a sort of a daze and it's not until the smaller blonde boy kneels beside you to slip under the bed to get something that you decide that the great wall of anti-pedophilia is indeed impenetrable enough. Seriously, any more and he might as well reinforce every inch of your body with hundreds of thick steel spikes. Because he's only inches from you, because you don't really feel like talking, and because his ass is sticking out from underneath the bed, wiggling invitingly, you give said ass a quick pat to acquire his attention.

Butters squeaks in response, sliding out from under the bed and dragging a small cardboard box out with him. Sitting up on his knees next to you, he takes to blinking at you questioningly. "...Did'ya want somethin'?"

You find it funny how, especially after recent events that should have brought sensitivity about things of a sexual nature to an all-time high, Butters doesn't think anything of a pat on the butt from a not-quite-friend. "The barricade is good enough, I think."

"Yeah, I know. Fer now at least."

"Then what's with the box?" You look pointedly at the box in his lap until he mutters a loud 'oh!' of realization.

"No, no! This isn't for the barricade. It's rations! I figured that we'd need it sooner or later... if we get hungry or anything..." He opens the box, revealing rows of neatly stacked expensive looking candy bars. "It's not much, but…" Just when you're about to ask why he has a box of chocolate stuffed under his bed he adds, "I've been savin' 'em for a while, but they're still good I think. My Mom and d—my parents give 'em to me for allowance, since they think givin' me money would only lead to trouble..." Small fingers run across the neatly wrapped candy before taking one out and offering it to you.

"Ah, it makes sense that they would think that," you say as you take the offered candy bar, unwrapping it in a zombie-like fashion. You even eat it like a zombie, shoving it into your mouth greedily like it's scrumptious brain tissue that your only purpose in life is to devour. Like most days, you've only eaten about half the amount of food that normal people do, significantly less nutritious food at that. Butters watches silently as you demolish the candy bar, his gaze is slightly unnerving and it seems like he doesn't even register that he's staring at all.

After you've licked your fingers clean of chocolate you pick up the conversation where it left off. "Tonight is a great example of how money corrupts, don't you think? Those without it are willing to do anything," you gesture down at your scantily clothed body, "for it, and those with money think it allows them to do whatever they please, buy _anything_, example—your dad."

"Oh, Ken..." Butters seems to take this as a cue to start addressing the situation, which you know means consoling or something to that effect. Whatever he plans on doing, you know you don't deserve it. Mr. Stotch isn't to blame for this and Butters sure as hell isn't, so as far as you're concerned no one should be apologizing or trying to make you feel better about yourself. "I don't think you're dirty or corrupt, or nothin like tha—" Butters shuts up with a muffled sound of confusion when you press your finger against his lips.

"Butters, no offense but I don't care what you or anyone else thinks." When Butters' brow furrows, looking slightly hurt, you rush to add, "Not that I'm not relived that you don't dislike me for it. Actually, I lied. I do care what you think. I would have felt like shit if you were upset about this, god knows you have the right to be furious. It wasn't my intention to hurt anyone, least of all someone as undeserving as you."

"Gosh, Ken, there's no reason for me to be sore at you. And don't be treatin' me like no victim, cause I'm not. There must be some reason all this bad stuff always happens to me. I had to've done somethin' to deserve it," he says smiling sadly, honestly believing his words to be true.

"You really think that?"

Butters nods, his head bowed.

You lay your hand reassuringly on his shoulder, knowing you shouldn't be touching him at all. You have no right. "I don't think you deserve any of it." Butters keeps staring at his lap, but you know he heard you and appreciated your words when he covers the hand you placed on his shoulder with his own. Your heartbeat is suddenly pounding sickeningly loud in your chest and you have no idea why. Mentally, everything is normal. You should be clam, but then why do you feel so sick? Regardless, you decide it's time for a subject change_ right now_.

"Anyway," you say a little too loudly. "Speaking of money," you use plucking glorified green paper out of your pockets as an excuse to tear your hand out from under his soft one. Too bad you only end up feeling more awkward as Butters' gaze follows your hands intently. "I don't want it." It's hard to resist cringing at the lie, but you manage. You try not to pay attention to the large numbers in the corners of each bill as you fold them into a neat pile and hand them to Butters.

He takes the money hesitantly, staring wide-eyed down at it. It's good to know that you're not the only one who thinks that it's a rather large sum. "W-wow…! I mean, no, you keep it, my dad doesn't deserve to get it back and I don't need it for nothin'."

With a small shake of your head you insist that he keeps it and mutter quickly that you won't take it back no matter what. You don't want to stay on this subject for too long, your fingers are already itching to snatch the money back from the all-too-willing boy. Butters seems to have an annoying internal debate before he leans up to place the money under his pillow before shifting back into a sitting position and frowning at you.

"Alrightie then, I'll just, keep it there and we can decide what to do with it later."

You sigh but drop it, glad this conversation appears to be over. Though after what must have been ten minutes of silence and sitting still, you realize that you preferred the awkward and potentially violence inducing (you will not claw Butters to death and steal the money, you will not claw Butters to death and steal the money....) conversation to ten minutes of Butters staring at you. Seriously, it's borderline creepy.

Thankfully, he eventually snaps out of it and says that you two should be getting to bed.

Right about now you're probably looking at him like he's crazy. "What?" He doesn't honestly expect you to stay the night does he? "Why would I stay?"

"Well, there are plenty of reasons," he tells you matter-of-factly, though he names none of these 'reasons'.

Pausing, you wait for him to explain further, but when he doesn't you can only assume he doesn't really have a good reason. "Right. I'll just be climbing out of your window now," but as you stand and take a step in the direction of the window, both of Butters' arms shoot up to coil tightly around one of yours, effectively stopping you in your tracks.

"Please Ken," Butters practically whines. "Stay here, just until mornin'. I swear you'll be safe. I'll worry about ya if you walk home all alone at this time of night. W-what would your parents think if you came waltzin' in the house at this hour?"

"They don't care, I do it all the time," you answer automatically only to regret it a moment later when you look back to see the horrified look Butters' face. "I didn't mean it like that. Tonight was my first time doing… _this_." You make a gesture with your free hand that is somehow supposed to translate to some equivalent of 'selling myself'. Impossibly, Butters understands your primitive form of communication, grinning widely as he stands up.

Apparently the wet, sock induced milk footprints Butters has tracked all over his room had been forgotten, because as soon as he stands up he slips and falls backwards onto his bed, dragging you down on top of him.

Holding your breath you stare wide-eyed down at the smaller boy lying on his back beneath you. He blinks up at you cutely for a moment before whispering a loud "Ow."

You chuckle at that. "About time you slipped. Scurrying around in soaking wet socks like that was just _begging_ for a death sentence. Lucky you didn't fall and crack your head open."

"Not really," he frowns. "Even if the comfy bed weren't here to save me, I would've held out my arms so that they hit the ground first and not my head…" No duh, that's the normal reaction anyone would have when falling. You only understand what he's getting at when he adds, "Kenny, not everyone expires so easily," with a sympathetic look on this face.

What the fuck. You know that damn well. Just because you die all the time doesn't mean you don't understand the difference between normal and abnormal. You want to be pissed but somehow you can't bring yourself to be, it's obvious Butters didn't mean any harm by what he said. Still, he's being overly sensitive about something he doesn't understand in the slightest. How annoying.

"Why do you wear your socks like that," you ask, quick to change the subject.

"Like what?"

"With your PJs tucked into them."

"Oh! 'Cause it tricks myself into thinking they're the kind of jammies with the feet attached. I always liked those kind best, but I can never find any in my size," He pauses for a moment, thinking. "Hey, is that why you laughed at me earlier when I was arguing with my dad?"

You smile, finding the explanation oddly endearing. "Yeah. It looks ridiculous."

Butters frowns before shifting, lifting his legs up around either side of you, maneuvering so he can reach down and slip his wet socks off one at a time. Throughout the entire process he squirms beneath you, his thighs pressing tightly against your sides in some sort of reverse straddling position. When he finishes and settles back down comfortably beneath you, it's a miracle that he doesn't comment on your reddened cheeks. You wonder if he can feel the heat radiating off of your face, you sure can feel it—and you kind of hate yourself for reacting this way. It's _just_ Butters.

The warmth of Butters' body, the feel of the fabric of his clothes against your skin, it's making you tired, making you want to snuggle up against him and sleep what would undoubtedly be the best sleep of your life.

"What time do you think it is?" Butters asks suddenly.

"I don't know, has to be past two in the morning. Why does it matter? It's the Saturday tomorrow." Or today, depending on the time.

Butters bites his lip, looking slightly disappointed. "Oh darn. Well, I s'pose it doesn't matter. I just wanted to be well rested 'cause I'm goin' out somewhere with the girls tomorrow. It's pretty tiring spendin' time with them, they can be a real handful…"

Oh. That's right. Butters' _friends. _The entire high school cheerleading team. The team Butters himself is a part of. You have no idea why he tried so hard to join upon entering high school, but he did, and he's damn good at the whole cheerleading thing. If he wasn't such a sincere person you would have thought he just joined to get easy access to a group of hot chicks.

Right about now you should be picturing Butters in full uniform—not _his _of course but the standard female one, skirt and all. And _that_ should be making you uncomfortable, but instead you're picturing just under a dozen pleasantly curved girls with roaming hands and busy lips. For this, you blame the horrible rumors that only a building full of teenagers could spawn. The stories often varied from month to month but they always had the same theme—mainly, Butters frequently involved in scandalous acts with various members of the Cheerleading team, sometimes all of them at once. Oh yes, this brand of rumor was one that no one ever seemed to tire of, it probably helped that Butters was viewed by the majority as someone who would never get laid, and if he did it would be with another guy. That made it all the more unbelievable, fun gossip fodder.

When you had first gotten wind of these ridiculous notions being whispered in the halls, you had simply raised an eyebrow because, _come on people, it's Butters we're talking about._ But no, the rumors were being taken seriously by many, and upon finding this out you died laughing—literally.

Ah, it's impossible that the rumors have any truth to them, but here you are, picturing Butters in the middle of one of the top ten male fantasies—cheerleader orgy. You should be finding this hot, the small blonde boy flustered and being taken advantage of by several topless girls in the locker room. You should appreciate their busty chests, hour-glass figures and slender limbs… But instead of approving of these mental images you only feel like gagging.

You can't stop picturing almost-naked women molesting an almost-willing Butters, and it's fucking disgusting.

"Butters," you manage to say, feeling queasier and queasier by the second. You absolutely _hate_ this feeling, the horrible anticipation and cold sweat that comes before your stomach decides to turn on the exit sign in your mouth.

"Huh?"

"Kill me. Right now." Your voice is pleading as you find Butter's wrist, gripping it hard, your fingernails digging into his smooth flesh.

Poor Butters looks all kinds of confused and if you aren't mistaken his eyes are tearing up. What a baby. "W-what, why woul—"

"Because," you cut him off sharply. "If you don't I'm going to throw up all over you." It's going to happen any minute now, and the horrible feeling that's washing over you is making you delirious to the point of thinking that a dead body is favorable to a puddle of half-digested chocolate bar.

Butters cringes slightly, bracing himself. "Ken, why do you think that's worse than you dyin—"

Uugh, fucking Butters. Trust him to be the one person in the world that would not only not want to kill you, but also make no move to squeal in disgust and push you off of him like any sane person would do.

He's too fucking kind for his own good.

And _that's_ why you're pushing yourself off of Butters- off the bed, ripping the curtains and then the window open. _That's_ why you're clutching the windowsill, leaning outside, cold air and large snowflakes swirling around you. Your haste pays off and you get a few seconds of deep breathing in before you're spilling the contents of your stomach onto the snow covered earth below Butters' bedroom window. You didn't think it was possible, but you made it in time. For him. Even though it was his fault you got so sick in the first place.

You're glad Stan isn't here to see this. He would have compared you and Butters to him and Wendy, thinking that you're vomiting because of love, not because lesbians are disgusting.

_But, lesbians aren't disgusting…_A part of you deliberately whines. You tell that part to shut up.

As your stomach convulses violently you can barely feel the fingers running through your hair, brushing your mess of blonde bangs back and away from your face. The quiet assurances that 'everything'll be alright,'piss you off almost as much as they make you feel better.

After it's over you wonder how long it'll be before you'll be able to eat chocolate again. Butters continues to fret over you even after you wipe your mouth and retreat shakily to the bed.

He urges you to lie down, pushing you onto your back and then proceeding to shuffle through his belongings. The next thing you know he's sticking his fingers into your mouth so he can part your lips far enough to pop a little red _something_ into your mouth. You recognize the taste immediately: a cough drop.

"For the taste," Butters explains, smile apologetic. "I'm afraid it's the best we can do without toothpaste…"

You nod, not protesting as Butters adjusts you appropriately on the bed, taking extra care to be gentle as he moves you and proceeds to tuck you in. You watch him absently, beyond exhausted at this point. There's no point in fighting it now, you might as well stay the night. _Besides_, you think as he settles into a sitting position next to you, _his motherly nature is kind of nice_…


End file.
